Paperclip
by Xmarksthespot
Summary: Mycroft has Anthea; Sherlock has Molly Hooper. —Business AU; Assistant!Molly, CEO!Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Paperclip  
**By:** Xmarksthespot  
**Disclaimer:** Oh, definitely don't own anything but the plot of this fic.  
**Notes**: This is cross-posted over on AO3; it's been a while since I've posted anything on this site, but I figured I might as well cause I know some of you don't go on over there, so I really hope you enjoy!

* * *

**2011**

When Sherlock and Mycroft of Holmes &amp; Holmes Inc. met Molly Hooper, she was a mouse in a crowd of lions; she was a disaster. She donned a striped, poorly knitted jumper (clearly sentimental, perhaps a good luck charm of sorts) over a polka dotted collared shirt and an unfitting pencil skirt. No doubt it was an attempt to appear professional.

She stuttered through her interview, mixing up lines that she obviously prepared and memorized for the past week.

Now that Mycroft thought about it, it was probably his obvious utter distaste for the timid girl that led to Sherlock hiring her in the first place.

She was the typical, straight out of the textbook definition of a secretary, if that. She had carried a notepad with her despite the electronics the company provided, and she had with her a horrible crouch whenever she decided to forego said devices to scribble messily into her papers.

Not that it mattered so much to Sherlock, but the first week and a half, he had missed three board meetings and lost two clients. He was lucky that John Watson of Watson's Practice was already good friends with the brothers, or he would have been the third client lost – he was used to Sherlock arriving at irregular times anyway, the doctor claimed. The only difference since Molly's arrival was that Sherlock managed to eat on time; Mummy Holmes was delighted.

Mycroft had been very close to doing anything by means possible to fire Ms. Hooper regardless of Sherlock's insistence that she was far more helpful than anyone Mycroft had sent his way.

It wasn't until rival company, Moriarty &amp; Co. threatened to buy out Holmes &amp; Holmes Inc. on the accounts that the latter had been "improperly" and "illegally" providing sales transactions under the table and as a result, had been stealing from the Monarchy. Mycroft claimed he would never do so much as hurt Her Majesty, but even he and his team were left defeated without proof of their innocence.

Midway through the court session in what was originally deemed Doomsday, in true fashion of a distinctive Holmes secretary, Molly Hooper all but _glided_ into the courtroom, face determined and heels clicking behind her. Files in hand, she looked to have come fresh out of a modelling commercial when to the Holmes brothers, it was clear she had been up for nights. She had provided the validation that Holmes &amp; Holmes Inc. needed to dissolve Moriarty's false claims.

If Mycroft had to be honest, he would say that even Jim Moriarty was terrified of the devilish smirk gracing Ms. Hooper's lips.

* * *

**July 2015**

"Come in," Sherlock said, barely looking up at the glass doors.

"I _am_ in, Sherlock," the assistant replied immediately.

Sherlock looked upwards, brows furrowing at the sight of the young woman in front of his desk. It was only noon, but he was (slightly) exhausted from that day's amount of work. "Don't people normally knock before they come into my office?"

"Sorry, Sherlock, but the first day of my job, you told me not to bother with knocking, even when, quote, unquote, you have a meeting because me disrupting anything that involves you speaking to the people from the outside world is the reason why you hired me in the first place." She tried not to smile. "And I'm not _people_."

She knew Sherlock never tucked that memory anywhere in his cranium, but accepted his nod anyway. With that, she said, "You are scheduled to meet with Mr. Magnussen—"

Her boss groaned.

"—in an hour and forty-five minutes; your car is waiting for you as of this moment and if you leave now, you will have time to eat lunch."

Sherlock raised a brow at her.

"I've already ordered in advance at your favourite bistro. The chips are waiting for you, Sherlock."

It was enough to convince the grown man to stretch his limbs from behind his desk and pull off his Belstaff from the coat rack in the corner of the room.

"What am I meeting Magnussen for?" he asked, heading straight for the elevators; Molly followed him with equally long strides and the click of her heels was something of a calming metronome inside his head.

"To decline his apparently beneficial offer to become partners. You appreciate his fondness of our company, but you are already loyal to the Watsons, and although I suggest you not mention this at the safety of our dear friends, it's also because Magnussen is a no-good, _rat_ _bastard_ who will do nothing but run our company do—"

"Molly."

"O-Oh. Right," she paused to clear her throat. "You decided to remain loyal to the Watsons who refuse to have any affiliations with Magnussen, but you will want to keep amicable terms with him on company relations, regardless."

Once they reached the main floors, Molly stood by the car where the driver had Sherlock's door already opened for him.

"Mr. Holmes," she began, "do refrain from telling yet another person to _sod off_—"

"I never say that!"

Molly kept herself from rolling her eyes; she could see the limo driver trying not to seem amused. "No, but if I quote you directly, I will have to put a quid in the Swear Jar, don't I?"

Sherlock tried not to pout and decided to enter the car before doing a double take. "What are you doing? You're just standing there…Why aren't you making a move to get into the car?"

"I have today off, Mr. Holmes," Molly reminded. "In fact, I shouldn't even be here right now."

"Why?"

"I told you."

"You did?"

"I always tell you my schedule alongside yours."

"Oh…I must—"

"Mustn't have heard, I know," Molly finished, trying not to sound upset. "Lucky for you, I decided to ignore my own request for a holiday, so while I will not be attending your meeting, I _will_ be here when you get back." She handed him his briefcase. "Cheers."

He nodded, taking the briefcase from her grasp. "Oh, Ms. Hooper, before I leave, schedule a dinner with whoever planned the company fundraiser last month. Mycroft wants…well, no matter—and company relations needs…positivity or whatever you find fitting," he said with a wave of his hand.

"_I_ planned that fundraiser, Mr. Holmes."

"Even better. I don't have to go to another boring dinner. I will see you in two—"

"_Three_, ."

"—hours, Ms. Hooper." And with that, the driver shut the door and proceeded to drive the younger CEO off, leaving Molly behind.

She let out a loud exhale. Molly may be the best goddamn secretary Holmes &amp; Holmes Inc. will ever have seen next to Mr. Holmes's Anthea, but Sherlock Holmes was, and remains to be, the one person who could not _see_ her.

* * *

**April 2011**

Molly Hooper was the only secretary whose name Sherlock learned, according to office rumours. His previous secretaries, however long they lasted (which really wasn't long at all), had been referred to as "Secretary" or "You—what's your name again?" or the ever infamous: "_Why_ are you here…"

It was an achievement, of course, the fact that Sherlock even called her "Ms. Hooper" her first day of working, as she stumbled around and getting lost on just the main floor of the building.

For all intents and purposes, Holmes &amp; Holmes Inc. was a massive office supplies company, catered to the wealthy and business corporations. In truth, it was what was really funding all of Great Britain, but the brothers behind such a purportedly paramount company preferred to downplay their significance.

From what Molly could tell, less than five percent of the company employees had actually met either of the Holmes siblings. After asking around, she believed even fewer knew what the company actually did.

During the first week of the job, after she had finished memorizing the company policies, they had overwhelmed her to the point where she accidentally stumbled upon Mr. Holmes in a room she had not been made aware of. It was his private loo.

Calm and collected, her boss had instructed her to forget everything she was trained to do and just _do_ what _he_ told her to do. It helped and Molly tried not to be amazed (and slightly traumatized) when he went ahead and analyzed her physical and mental state all the while zipping his fly up. Of course, she wasn't able to face him properly for the next week without blushing, but wasn't that a tale to tell your future children and grandchildren?

One week later, he had told her she was allowed to bring Toby to work because not only was it just her and Sherlock working on that entire floor, but also because she would be working long hours there and he wouldn't want to waste time on a lawsuit if her cat died due to negligence. Molly had a feeling he's been deemed responsible for a death in one his previous secretaries' lives before.

She asked how he knew she had a cat (how he knew _anything_ about her, really).

He smirked.

She swooned (on the inside) and had reminded herself of the company policies Sherlock had previously told her to forget.

* * *

**July 2015**

"Mr. Holmes?"

Formalities were Sherlock's and Molly's way of telling the other of the presence of a stranger. More frequently, it was when they were in public rather than his office. And while Sherlock was considered her superior and therefore, _Mr. Holmes_ was a must, he insisted on returning the gesture and called her _Ms. Hooper_. She rather liked the fact that _Molly_ was reserved for when they were alone, he could tell.

"Yes, Ms. Hooper?"

"Mr. Holmes is here to see you."

He blanched before deciding to ruffle his hair, letting go of its neat gelled look and allowing the curls to bounce freely. Leaning back on his chair and tugging off his tie, he welcomed his older brother with the most disheveled appearance he could muster.

The older man waltzed in, lips tight in a disapproving line.

"Ah, Mycroft! What an unpleasant surprise," said Sherlock. "Don't sit, please. I would hate for you to be comfortable."

"She— Mr. Holmes!" Molly yelped. It was drilled early on for her to remain perfectly presentable in front of the other founder of the company. Despite her confidence levels skyrocketing over the years, it remained innate that she used titles with Mycroft just as she did with any other client, because he was technically also her employer and could potentially fire her. Now, according to Sherlock, it would be too much of a risk if they let her go, meaning she knew too much and could get away with anything she wanted. It must have been a compliment of her skill level, because Molly knew quite well that they could make her disappear if they wanted to.

"It's quite alright, Ms. Hooper," said Mycroft. He remained standing, grasping tightly on the black umbrella handle. "I'm far too used to my brother's _tough love_, as you say."

Sherlock grunted.

Molly nodded, turning around to close the glass doors behind her.

"Ms. Hooper," Mycroft called. "Please stay. I think you would like to be well informed of the matters in this meeting."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his older brother, slightly curious yet also provoked that Mycroft dared to tell _his_ secretary what to do. It had been an unspoken agreement that Anthea was solely Mycroft's as much as Molly was Sherlock's.

"What is it?" he asked, straight to the point.

Glum, Mycroft sighed. "Anthea seems to be sick."

"What?"

"I don't want to repeat myself, little brother."

Sherlock shook his head and placed an elbow on his desk; his fingers rubbed his temple tentatively. "But that's impossible." He ignored Molly grimace in the back of the room, clearly disappointed in his use of words.

"I thought so too. Apparently, even _she_ is susceptible to the flu."

"Pity. That doesn't explain why you're here. You do realize my division does _not_ handle exterminating airborne viruses."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Of course, Sherlock. That's one of the many duties that _my_ side of the company and I assure you, my team is hard at work to ensure Anthea's quick recovery."

"Then why are you here? Unless Mummy is threatening you, we don't need to converse so idly in person. It's not Christmas yet—" he paused, shifting his eyes to look directly at Molly; she shook her head to confirm that no, it wasn't Christmas yet, "—so there's absolutely no reason why my security guards are subjected to seeing your face in their cameras. You do realize how hefty the hiring process is, don't you?"

"And you, dear brother, do realize that _I_ do all the hiring around here. The only person in this company who was not sought out by me was Ms. Hooper."

Sherlock grinned. "Only because I have an eye for talent." He could see Molly's faint blush.

"Regardless, I have come to an unfortunate circumstance. You see, I am to meet the Duke of Somerset at the end of the week. You remember how he is, Sherlock."

Sherlock made a somewhat vague nod. He did _not_ want to remember that incident.

"And I am in need of assistance now that my own associate is out of work for the time being…" Mycroft's voice trailed off, deciding that Sherlock, _slow_ as he was, would need time to process the infor—

"_No_!" It was the most offended the man had ever sounded.

In the back, Molly was more astonished than scandalized like her boss was, that Mycroft Holmes had requested _her_. While she was completely loyal to Sherlock, she couldn't help but feel gleeful that she was superior enough to handle operations in more than one Holmes's mind.

(Sherlock scowled when he saw her face; she knew he could tell what she was thinking. She refrained from smiling even wider at his expense).

"I've taken the liberty of checking your schedule for the upcoming week, brother mine. Nothing important outside of your daily board meetings, all of which you can accomplish on your own," said Mycroft.

Sherlock, however, continued to be visibly upset. "She's mine. Go to a local college and pluck a student wallowing in her debts to fetch your socks for you."

"Mr. Holmes, if I may—" Molly was, of course, cut off.

"Sherlock…"

"No."

"Mummy said so," retorted Mycroft.

If possible, Sherlock looked even more vicious.

"We're not _children_, Mycroft."

Both Holmes men ignored the snort that escaped Molly.

"I'm aware," Mycroft said with a long sigh. "But this is of grave importance and I _do_ need someone whose caliber matches that of Anthea's. I'm afraid only your Ms. Hooper qualifies that particular skill set."

"No."

"Mummy—"

"Mummy also told you to use your mouth when you eat, not inhale everything on sight. Stop using our mother against me; it won't work." He paused. "_This_ time."

"Sherlock…"

His glare directing towards his older brother shifted and softened slightly at Molly whose attention was focused on him as well. He set his eyes on her until he was sure of her slight nod, to which he pressed his lips together in dissatisfaction, but accepted it nonetheless. Invisible flames spiraling out of his nostrils, Sherlock growled a "When?"

"Two days."

"Two days?! You can't expect me to prepare on such short notice," Sherlock exclaimed. "Even the Queen needs more notice of your impending visit to build a room big enough to sustain you!"

The umbrella pinned to the floor barely budged at Sherlock's loud outburst. "As unexpected as Anthea's illness, mind you. I am quite sure you can handle things on your own. After all, if I recall correctly, before Ms. Hooper you seemed fine on your own. You never did want a secretary of your own."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but held his tongue when he glanced down at the glass jar sitting on the corner of his desk. It contained several coins. Molly's Swear Jar; a fund, really, for her end of the year spa trip, which she always paid for herself, either way, but it still helped remind him not to tell a client, or even his brother, to stick inanimate objects – such as that umbrella of his – in certain crevices.

"Not to worry, Sherlock," Mycroft said over the pause. "I'll try my best not to lure her over to my part of the company, though why she remains to be on your side is still highly questionable." With that, the elder Holmes brother turned around.

"No need to direct me, Ms. Hooper. I can see myself out. I will email you the details later tonight and see you in two days."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," replied Molly. She closed the glass doors upon his departure and turned to face the fuming man.

"Sherlock."

He didn't respond, merely staring at the blank spot on his desk in a fixed stance.

"Sherlock," she said again, softer this time. "I will prepare everything in advance and have a temp—"

"Don't need a temp," he quickly said.

"Oh. Alright." She nodded. "I will plan everything ahead of time and make sure you will be at ease during my absence. I'll go over it with you tomorrow to make sure everything is to your satisfaction." She then smiled and walked closer to the man she had come to call a friend, or something of the sort, over the past few years. She stopped in front of his desk. "I'm sure it will only be for a week or two, Sherlock, no more."

With a low, sincere voice, Sherlock told her: "Thank you, Molly."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** You guys are an amazing bunch! I really appreciated each and every one of your comments and I hope you enjoy this chapter too! Please keep in mind that this fic includes many flashbacks. Molly began working for Sherlock in 2011. Present time is 2015.

* * *

**January 2012**

Nine months into working with Holmes &amp; Holmes Inc., Molly had not been gentle the first time she placed (slammed, more like it) the glass jar on the corner of Sherlock's desk. He stared at her astutely.

"Swear Jar," she had called it. "To control your foul mouth."

"And what is the purpose of this…_Swear Jar_?"

"Because your brother seems to have the impression that _I_ am responsible for your company losing clients, as if my 'dysfunctional wardrobe'," she said with air quotes, "has repulsed everyone into _not_ wanting to earn millions by partnering with your firm rather than the fact that you can't control that potty mouth of yours with your incessant need to insult everyone you meet.

"So, you are going to add five pounds in this jar every time you swear."

The man had rolled his eyes. "I don't _carry_ money—"

"_Start_," Molly had snapped, which was a surprise for the CEO. It had been the first time his secretary had spoken in that tone of voice with him. It had not been the last.

"You risk my job at this firm every time you decide to be descriptive on someone's secret affair or preposterous gambling habits and picking arguments with them. I'm going to need a fund to ensure I can transition to another job the moment Mycroft—or worse, your mother—decides that I'm done here."

Sherlock had sighed. "Don't be ridiculous. My mother adores you. She complimented your holiday jumper the last time we met."

"Sherlock…"

"Assuming you aren't forced to leave the company—unlikely; Mycroft has no power over me or my associates, despite what his ego believes—what becomes of the money?"

Molly had formed an amused smirk. "I'd very much like to go to a spa for a day."

He had frowned. "So regardless, it goes to you."

"Maybe you should swear less then," she had said with a giggle.

Sherlock had tried to hide his own bemusement.

* * *

**July 2015**

Sherlock added fifty-five pounds to the Swear Jar the first day he had to work without Molly's assistance. He made note to find the person involved with hiring the cleaners, because chances were likely the one he just insulted would be handing in his resignation later this afternoon. But then again, hirings were usually Mycroft's job, cleaner or not, and Sherlock didn't feel like contributing any more than he should.

The hours went by slower, which made no sense to him seeing as there were still twenty-four hours –sunrise, sunset, mindless people doing useless things—in a day. Before he knew it, four days had past and frankly, he was still surprised he remembered to attend meetings at all.

"Where's Molly?" John asked, taking a bite out of his sandwich. Sherlock scrunched up his nose at the smell.

"Shanghai."

The doctor's eyes widened. "Shanghai? Why there? I thought she and Mycroft were meeting the Duke of Somerset."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning back on the office chair that sat across from John Watson's desk. After several tedious hours of _boring_ nonsense, he was about to blow off some steam by targeting employees over on Mycroft's side of the company. It wasn't until Molly's text message—

_Remember to eat lunch! –MH_

— that he had decided to pay an old friend a visit.

"How am I supposed to know why she and the Duke of Somerset are in China?" He asked rhetorically, eyes fixed on the phone in his hand. He placed the device down in favour of picking the chips off of his plate. He scowled soon after the first bite. The chip tasted bland; nothing like how it was when Molly ordered it for him.

"Do you think she's having fun being outside of the office for once?" John asked while chewing on his food. The immediate look on Sherlock's threatened face had John clear his throat and want to take back the question. He swallowed nervously. "Er, right. Probably not. Anyway, the construction done on the west wing of the hospital's finally finished. We'll be opening up a whole new sector in a few months, so I'm going to be a little occupied. Y'know, with managing the new staff. Got a batch of new interns too…" John's voice trailed off.

Sherlock paid no attention to John, but his tightened expression eased somewhat as he took another bite of his unhealthy lunch. John assumed Molly was scolding him on his bad eating habits seeing as he only ate whenever she reminded him. God bless that woman, he thought.

* * *

**August 2015**

The day Molly was supposed to have come back to work, Sherlock was already seated in his office. The fingers positioned over his laptop keys were stagnant. His eyes remained fixated on the sight of the elevator door, slightly obscured by the light refractions of so many glass walls in between them. He had been watching out for the return of his assistant for several hours now, despite Molly texting him less than forty minutes ago that her plane had just landed. But despite himself, his eyes couldn't focus. He had been unable to perform his tasks as of that day, constantly shifting from the files in front of him and the entrance to the top floor.

It was ridiculous; he chastised himself for doing so many times already. Molly and his brother had been travelling by private jet, but even so, with traffic along the way to the company, it would take Molly at least an hour and a half before she would arrive, assuming she didn't by her flat to pick up more comfortable heels. Sherlock shook his head and retracted said estimate. An hour and fifteen minutes; Molly had left a pair of emergency shoes here at the office. She was never particularly graceful, so even her day to day heels, as short as they were compared to most women's, suffered greatly.

But he stared. Sherlock Holmes stared at the silent doors and ultimately decided nothing could be done until his assistant physically handed him the spreadsheets and whatnot. The only thing that could possibly distract him would be John's invitation to the hospital to check out a body that recently had been put through an unfortunate accident, but unluckily for the CEO, his best friend had been much more occupied since their last meeting for reasons he couldn't recall.

He released a heavy exhale through his nostrils, eyes leering at the ticking clock on the wall. One hour since the plane's landing. Molly's arrival would range between nineteen and twenty-six more minutes.

Allowing his head to fall back, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, fingers idly twirling a pen. When the white squares gave him no sense of excitement, his eyes fell onto the sight of the Swear Jar, completely full and overflowing due to evolution's inability to filter out incessant people within a short period of time. There was a dull ache in the back of his neck, no doubt from the awful position he was in, but Sherlock kept still. Eyes closed, the only perpetuating source of annoyance was that damn clock on the wall that ticked louder than it should have.

Eight to thirteen minutes and his secretary would be fixing relations with all those clients he'd met in the past week, if only to keep Mycroft from ringing over to his division and scolding him for being an arse.

Seven to eleven minutes and his assistant would be back and he wouldn't have to deal with people any more than he would have to.

Five to eight minutes and the sound of his hefty breaths would dissipate into thin air like Mycroft's hair.

Two to three minutes and Molly would be standing at the door, eyes wide at the Swear Jar and a tease ready at the tip of her tongue.

Sherlock opened his eyes, sat up straight before tugging his sleeves away from his wrists. He placed his fingers back on the keyboard and faced the monitor in front of him. His eyes slowly inched their way back to the elevator door in the distance.

No one came.

His frown deepened and he looked at the irritating wall clock again; she was five minutes overdue. Despite having heard nothing in the past few hours, due to the sound proof walls that Mycroft made sure of (_"You have a company to run, little brother. Detective superintendent Lestrade's office is not your playground, even if the sirens are loud and the crime scenes are at a walkable distance."_) Sherlock checked his phone for any signs of delayed departure from the airport or heavy traffic: none.

Twelve minutes overdue.

Sherlock leaned forward to press his lips against his hands, laced together. There was an average flight time of merely twelve hours between Shanghai and London; surely Molly wouldn't opt to return to her flat? She had work to do. The man shook the thought out of his mind; it was an asinine and farfetched idea. There had to be another reason why she was late.

Within the next sixteen minutes, Sherlock covered every surface in his office, unable to keep still. He fidgeted, muttered to himself, and checked his phone more times than he had all week.

His brow lines were so far etched into his skin, even when he tried to relax his facial muscles, there was still the vague, pink marks that remained. His breathing hadn't slowed one bit and neither had the steps in his feet. Circling the office, he considered the idea of either throwing the _Goddamn_ clock out the window from his 30th floor, or hiding it somewhere in his brother's office.

Sherlock ran his fingers through the curls of his hair and stared at the cabinet not too far from his desk. His cigarettes were in there, and despite having kicked the habit some time ago, he always kept a spare box for times when nicotine patches weren't enough.

His assistant hadn't been in the office for a week and was late; he hadn't enough patches for this.

With haste, he opened the drawer, only to find a yellow, square Post-It in place of where his pack of cigarettes should have been.

_No smoking! – Mummy._

_Sorry, Sherlock. Your mum was convincing. I had to tell her where it was. – MH._

Scrunching up the sticky, Sherlock felt a throbbing pain in the back of his head.

"Fuck," he said loudly.

"Sherlock!"

At the sound of the soft voice, Sherlock turned on the balls of his feet. Idly reaching into his pocket that contained the ball of cash he kept for events such as this, he reflexively dropped the bills into the jar nearby, all he while staring at the sight of Molly Hooper. Even if he had been forewarned that she would be coming back today, even if it was so very obvious that only Molly Hooper would be in his office, he couldn't help but be _surprised_ that she was there.

"Molly!" Sherlock took note of how stunned he was, quickly clearing his throat and adjusting the tone of his voice. "Back from running Mycroft's errands?"

She nodded with a bright smile. "Hullo to you too, Sherlock," she said cheerfully, unaware that it scratched an unwelcomed itch in Sherlock's lungs; he felt his breathing level, finally.

Sherlock suddenly became lost, unsure of what to do what with him standing in the middle of his office—too far from his computer to use as a distraction. It should have been easy, he knew. He's turned his back on Molly countless of times before to go back to whatever he had been doing. But this time, he couldn't.

It wasn't until he realized that the grin was still plastered on her face, and that she carried with her several bags whose scent wafted straight to his stomach.

Realizing his observation, Molly lifted the plastic bags up.

"I figured you hadn't eaten yet," she said, "so I took a detour on my way here to get you some lunch."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the lunch bag from her. She had bought a lot, by the looks of it, most likely to cover for his dinner later that night as well. He could ask her to join, he thought, but the question lingered in his throat. Instead, he said:

"Right. I'll get through this soon, thank you. I have to finish with some work Mycroft was too lazy to look over before the trip…"

Molly accepted it. "Of course, Sherlock. I'll be at my desk if you need me." She smiled. "I really missed you by the way," she added, leaving Sherlock to stare at the woman, his breathing irregular again.

He studied her as she walked away, no different from how she was before the weeklong trip. Her hair was still in that poorly tied ponytail, wool cardigan overtop a loose fitting dress shirt, and straight, black pants that were older than her position at this firm. And yet he couldn't help but stare at her, taking in the sight of her familiar smile directed at him before he himself was smiling.

He would have to suppose that he missed her too, if only a little bit.

* * *

**August 2015**

Much to Sherlock's contentment, Molly's week long departure hadn't had a significant effect on her work ethics nor did Mycroft make a dent on their regular routines. She had spent all morning at her desk, occasionally stepping into his office without forewarning as per usual. Likewise, Sherlock would situate at his own desk, demonstrating more concentration to his work than he had been during the two weeks his assistant had been gone.

"Be honest with me, Molly," he said after turning on his intercom. He could feel her eyes on him through glass walls.

"I always honest with you, Sherlock," replied the speaker.

"What are you thinking?"

"Well…"

Sherlock finished signing a document with one hand all the while minimizing the intercom volume with the other; he knew what was coming.

"I think the Swear Jar was just a big mistake. You obviously don't mind losing money, and really, it's just encouraging you to swear at more opportune times—and more viciously too!" Molly's voice rang, each successive thought increasing in volume than the last.

"The money goes to your fund, Molly. I don't see why you insist on complaining."

He refrained from showing too much emotion. If Molly had any indication he was gloating, she wouldn't hesitate to actually step into his office and scold him in person. Instead, he continued to divide his attention equally between the file in front of him and the person listening to his every move.

"He was eighty-six years old, Sherlock!"

"Doesn't matter. Mrs. Hudson never liked him."

"Mrs. Hudson sold her company to him thirty-five years ago for an early retirement. It's not hers anymore; it was guaranteed to change over time."

He rolled his eyes, pushing back on his chair and angling himself in order to cross his ankles on top of his desk. Frustrated with the amount of work he had been subjected to, he turned off his computer monitor. He dipped his neck back and toyed with the pen in his hands while studying the ceiling.

"And look at its downfall since her departure."

"You can't just keep it the same way as it was," Molly continued to chide through the speaker. "You weren't even born then!"

"Trust me, Molly."

"Sadly, I always do."

"Then believe me when I say it was all for the best."

Molly didn't respond; peculiar as she always had some sort of retort for him whenever they chatted through the intercom. Sherlock waited, but patience was never his forte and he found himself levelling his eyes, searching for her face through glass walls. There, he found widened lips on her mousey face, which while appreciative, was incredibly uncalled for.

"What—why are you smiling?"

He saw Molly glance up from her phone. As if speaking to him in person, she turned from her spot to face him. "Mr. Jones will be recovering nicely from his heart attack," he heard her say. "It'll be a lot easier for me now that I know we won't be sued for agitating an old man to his death – just sued for causing the heart attack in the first place."

Sherlock frowned, pushing his legs back and causing the office chair below him to wheel a distance farther from his desk. He could practically _hear_ Molly's triumphant smirk while he groaned into his hands.

"I have no idea what you mean by _easier_, Molly. He's _alive_. Now I'll have to see him again."

Molly laughed echoed through the speakers; behind his hands, Sherlock smiled with her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes**: Thank you, thank you, thank you for your support guys! School's been hectic these days (ugh, exams are coming up), so unfortunately slow updates. But I really appreciate it all your love. :)

Remember: Present day is 2015. Molly began working for Sherlock in 2011.

* * *

**September 2015**

Sherlock, while tolerating of Toby's presence along his work floor, had never quite gotten along with his secretary's cat. At least, not initially. If Sherlock had to choose, though would never act upon to avoid Molly's vehement lectures, he would rather have a guard dog stationed on his floor. But as it turned out, Toby wasn't a fan of Mycroft either, which resultantly won him points for displays of intelligence.

Needless to say, a hiss coming from the grey feline was more than enough to warn him of Mycroft's presence, arriving just before Molly said, "Mr. Holmes, your brother is here" through her intercom.

"Tell him to go away," Sherlock responded. He hadn't bothered to look up.

Her lack of response accumulated the bile crawling up his throat, and he reluctantly glanced up from his work. There, on the other side of the floor, stood Mycroft Holmes, chatting amicably with _his_ assistant. Without a second thought, he pulled himself from his chair, long strides taking him to Molly's desk within a few seconds.

"—oh I wouldn't lie to you, Ms. Hooper. She quite enjoyed your company."

"Who did?" Sherlock interrupted; neither Molly nor Mycroft seemed surprised by his presence quickly interfering with their small bubble of space.

"Why the Countess of Wessex, of course. She had taken quite a liking to dear Ms. Hooper during our visit in Shanghai some months ago," Mycroft said. "And of course, Molly enjoyed herself just as much, didn't you?"

"You mean _Ms. Hooper_." No one called her Molly aside from Sherlock.

"Slip of the tongue," Mycroft retorted, a slight sneer to his voice directed only towards the younger sibling. "I do apologize, _Ms. Hooper_, it seems our previous trip has me forgetting our proper cues."

"I-It's alright, Mr. Holmes. I don't mind," Molly insisted though ducked her head before she could receive the backlash of Sherlock onto her.

"Why are you here, Mycroft? Surely you're not here to gloat the five pounds you've gained since vacationing on the other side of the world while _others_ did your dirty work for you. We're not scheduled to meet on any business related terms else I would have had Ms. Hooper take you out of my schedule. _Why_ are you in my space?"

Mycroft clicked his tongue in response. "I sometimes forget you're the slow one, dear brother."

"Hm, worked on me when I was four. Thirty years and not a single new joke? You must be getting dull in your old age."

The older man refrained from rolling his eyes. Rather, he once again focused his attention towards the secretary. Molly had remained seated behind the desk that shielded her from the Holmes brothers. All too aware of offending Sherlock by this move, Mycroft spoke, "As I had been explaining to Ms. Hooper before you ceremoniously disturbed us, many officials were rightfully charmed by her during our previous meeting with the Duke of Somerset, especially one Countess of Wessex, who requested Ms. Hooper's presence at her up and coming birthday party."

"No," came from Sherlock's mouth, despite Molly opening her own.

"Now _Sherly_, Ms. Hooper is a grown woman. She's fit to decide for herself, don't you think?"

"I said _no_."

Mycroft sighed, though not in defeat, much to Sherlock's dismay. "You really do need to stop hogging all your toys. It will only be for twelve days—no more. In the time being, Anthea will be assisting you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Anthea? Why would I want _Anthea_?"

Said woman looked up from her phone with a subtle but menacing glare; no doubt Sherlock would have to pay for that one way or another—she and Molly had _ways_ of torture that neither he nor Mycroft could explain.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock felt weary of her expression, and with a clear of his throat, Sherlock mumbled, "Apologies, Anthea."

The woman behind Mycroft barely batted an eyelash before diverting her attention back to her phone.

"Clever," Mycroft chided with pursed lips. No doubt he would hear from Anthea later. "The countess does insist, Sherlock, and you don't want to upset her _yet again_."

"I said—"

"I-I'm sure if it's only for twelve days…" Molly squeaked, interrupting the Holmes men.

Sherlock's brows automatically pinched together as he looked at her in disbelief. Mycroft seemed absolutely gleeful.

"It's settled then."

* * *

**September 2015**

_Sherlock, stop it. It's only been four days. This is not a three patch situation. –MH_

_How do you know? –SH _

_Never mind. Stop using Anthea to spy on me. –SH_

_Why else would she be there for? –MH_

_Have you eaten breakfast yet, Sherlock? You know how nicotine affects you on an empty stomach. –MH_

_You're not my mother. –SH_

_Of course not. Your mother is on her way up the elevator right now. –MH_

_What? –SH_

_I had repeated your schedule to you three times before I left, at least. No doubt Anthea has mentioned it last night when you left your office, and this morning when you entered it as well. Mrs. Holmes is your 9 o'clock. –MH_

_Send her my regards. –MH_

_You're fired. –SH_

_Don't come back. –SH_

_Anthea is dull. Come back. –SH_

_Don't tell her I said that. –SH_

_Goddammit, woman. –SH_

_Swear jar. –MH_

_Done. –SH_

_My mother says hello. –SH_

* * *

**September 2015**

"I can't keep coming here, you know. I have a hospital to run."

"They can run it themselves."

"Sherlock, you told me it was a medical emergency!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's statement. Whether it be his graduation, wedding, or something as 'daft' as the grand opening to a hospital, John always came when Sherlock called for him. Their friendship was a thing of beauty, according to Mary.

"My brain is lacking sufficient levels of dopamine," Sherlock stated, earning a dramatic exhale from the poorly dressed doctor, sitting across from Sherlock's desk with his hands folded on his lab.

"Smoking again, are we?" John, obviously picking up this posture from his old therapist, waited for the CEO to continue as if he was a patient in one of his clinics.

Sherlock gave a pout."Molly blackmailed every corner store within a two kilometer radius _not_ to sell me any nicotine even if I throw buckets of pounds in their faces! Hiring that woman was a big mistake—she knows far too much and is resorting to the same methods as Anthea and all of Mycroft's favourite bakeries."

John cleared his throat, straightening himself up from his seat. "Right, then. Sherlock, I'm not encouraging you to smoke—as your doctor and your friend, I'm forbidding you actually, but when have you ever listened to my advice, hm?" He grinned at the nostalgia, earning an inkling of a smirk from Sherlock. "But if Molly's only blocked all store owners within a two kilometer radius, you could, quite easily, go _beyond_ that. You are capable of walking, last I checked."

Sherlock let out a breathy, short laugh at John's suggestion. He earned a raised brow in question. "You have no idea what that woman is capable of if she hears that I've attempted beyond two kilometers."

Along with Sherlock, John laughed. "Dear God, you're not even married and you're whipped. You Holmes's have a knack for choosing your assistants."

Both Sherlock and John glanced up to stare at Anthea who, at Molly's desk, remained tight lip, though exuded a triumphant presence.

John turned back on his chair, a little head shake following him. Laughter quickly dying, he looked back at his friend who clearly had a lot of work ahead of him though refused to do any of it. His smile fell.

"You miss her."

Sherlock sighed. "Of course I miss her. I even miss the damn cat!"

John nodded along to the jar, to which Sherlock added his bills.

"Even if it got hairs all over my office," he added as an afterthought.

Eyes wide, John's mouth fell open easily. What comes out was a simple: "Wow."

Sherlock looked at him with a quizzical expression.

"Just thought I'd have to work a little harder to get that admission from you," John responded, his face smug.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Molly's extended her trip with Mycroft." Then dropped more bills into the jar while muttering, "Twelve days my arse."

"For how much longer?"

"Two more weeks. Apparently Princess Anne was present at the Countess of Wessex's birthday party and insisted my brother, and in extension, Molly, stay and confirm further business affairs."

John let out an exhale. "You're never going to tell me the extent to which your company rules the country, will you?"

Sherlock groaned, completely ignoring John. He leaned back on his chair and tossed his legs up onto his desk with ease, foregoing the look of disdain coming from Anthea through glass dividers. "Bored!" He called. "Molly's off frolicking across Great Britain, you've got your hospital—"

John shook his head, about to partially drone out Sherlock's up and coming rant.

"Mary's got her portion of the pharmaceutical company and the baby—"

The doctor did a double take. "Wait, what's that now?"

"—Mycroft's…ugh."

"Did you just say baby?"

"—and Scotland Yard's getting duller by the day. They rehired Philip. _Anderson_. Idiots."

"_Sherlock!_ I'm having a baby?!"

"You _are_ a doctor, aren't you?" Sherlock sneered. "Anyone with half a brain could tell. Oh, I believe it's common protocol to offer one congratulations, so _congratulations_—though I don't see why the impending arrival of a non-stop, volatile screaming infant prone to projectile vomiting is anything to be commended on…"

"Thanks, mate," inputted John sarcastically. He could almost _see_ the flames rushing vehemently from his friend's nostrils, though it seemed the rush of distress had dissipated long enough for John to continue speaking. "Anyway, do you only miss Molly because she brought entertainment to your otherwise _dull life_? Isn't there…I dunno, anything else?" If it were anyone else in that room with him, John would be crossing his fingers.

Sherlock squinted at John in confusion. "Why else would I miss her? She's my secretary—it's her job. What point was it to go through that extensive hiring process if I don't get what I want?"

"Right. Well. I'm going to go have a chat with Mar', and you….try not to shoot anything this time, hmm? Unlike your old one, this office is made of glass."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the comment; nostalgia must be hitting him the way those patches stuck along his forearm weren't. "Design flaw—knew I shouldn't have let Mycroft be in charge of the reconstruction…"

John smiled, but knew it was time for their daily conversations to end. Without invitation, he pulled himself from his seat, grabbing his coat hung on the back of the chair in the process. He flipped it over himself and stuck his arms in, circling his body to head towards the doors.

"Talk to you later, Sherlock," John said.

"John, wait."

"Yes?" John looked over his shoulder, where Sherlock's legs have finally found themselves flat on the floor and his friend was looking a little too unsure—too concerning if John had anything to say about it.

"I really do mean it," Sherlock said slowly and carefully. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down before he managed his next train of thought. "Congratulations."

The word alone brought a contagious grin on John's face, even if Sherlock was doing everything in his power not to do the same. Of course, the prat wouldn't succumb to such expressions, but the heavy stare Sherlock had set onto John accompanied by pursed lips had been enough.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said for the second time that meeting, though without the sarcasm hinted earlier.

And with that, he left the room, leaving Sherlock in his office, alone.

* * *

**October 2015**

Sherlock had to get a new Swear Jar.

He placed the old (full) one on the shelf in his office, along with Molly's other forgotten belongings, like the comb she left on top of her desk the morning Anthea came in instead of her, and her emergency trainers, which she left by the elevator doors, for when heels couldn't take her to where she needed to be.

He remembered the first day Molly had taken a _vacation_ from work, some years ago, how when she came back to see that the jar had been a little fuller. A slight twist at the end of her lips had formed.

"You added money to the jar," she had said.

"I did promise you I would when my language did not seem appropriate to others," he had replied, and looked up momentarily from his work to her face. A year into work, and yet she had been still slightly doubtful of him. But it had changed then; her perception of him had changed at that moment on where she knew how honest the man could be.

It wasn't the same compared to now when Anthea graced him with her hidden smirks, so similar to Mycroft's whenever the older sibling had something disastrously distasteful planned. Sherlock could see her being entertained by his torture whenever he groaned at the world's stupidity.

Molly would have chastised him for not working through her intercom that was always on, even during client meetings, and would after make a failed attempt at a joke in order to cheer him up. Now gone with Mycroft, she had texted him scoldings instead, twice now actually, followed by a series of reminders to eat and or actually _go_ to work.

She sent him meaningless photos too, of tourist attractions, funny hats on top of passing strangers. Once, she sent him a photo of a duckling and he threatened not to check his messages again if she continued to send him meaningless photos.

"Mr. Holmes." Anthea's voice snapped him out of his pondering.

With a depreciative look he always sent to Anthea whether she deserved it or not whenever she stood at the front of his office, he snapped at her. "What is it?"

"Your brother would like to inform you that my duties here end this Sunday," Anthea said monotonously, another feature he never quite adapted to as it was far from the emotions that stitched to everyone of Molly's words. At the thought, he heard his phone vibrate on the edge of his desk, but refrained from reaching it when his substitute assistant was still in the room.

"I'm aware," replied Sherlock.

"He would also like to inform you that he and Ms. Hooper are to extend their stay—"

"_What_?"

"—for an additional eight days and will not be arriving until the sixteenth." As if calculating her thoughts, Anthea added, "That is in fourteen days, Mr. Holmes."

And then she left with just as much grace that brought her into his office, leaving Sherlock to seethe at the thought of his brother ruining his life.

With an impending headache, his fingers left the spot on his temple in favour of his phone and checked his recent message. Molly had sent him a photo of two sparrows perched on her hotel balcony railing. He messaged her back.

* * *

**October 2015**

Eight days later, Sherlock's stomach growled at one in the evening.

Leaning back on his office chair, he realized Molly never reminded him to eat his dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Present day is 2015/2016. Molly began working for Sherlock in 2011.

* * *

**November 2015**

Sherlock could hear the faint footsteps entering his office, the monotonous tapping irritating him by the second. Without glancing up from his paperwork, he said, "Molly, someone's in my office. Why is there someone in my office?"

His response was a snort coming from the person standing across from him. He rolled his eyes, but was pleased nonetheless that it was his assistant rather than Mycroft again. He had seen that man far too many times this year in and out of his office to be healthy.

Even if it had been anyone else, Sherlock still would have insisted they leave him alone unless it was John or Mary or—well, Molly had the list. There was a reason why an appointment with the company co-founder was an absolute must; Sherlock needed the time to lower his expectations of people.

He tried not to frown at the sight of Molly. It had been weeks since she came back to do her job, after spending time away on Mycroft's trip. Almost a month really, but this Molly was different. She was…irritatingly different in every aspect but none that he could verbally describe. Except for her hair; she had parted her hair to the side. He complimented it at first—well, commented it, but according to Molly it was some vulgarian who insisted she do so while out of the country.

While unable to cover his obvious distaste for the new style, he luckily had a cover.

"You want something."

Molly, for all the years Sherlock had known her, had a habit of pressing her lips together, making thin lips appear thinner, whenever she was extremely pleased. And seeing as she was giving him the look that regrettably often had him succumbing to her wishes – there was a reason why she and Anthea worked on opposite sides of their very, very large corporate building – he knew he was right.

"Well?"

"Tomorrow off," she responded promptly.

"Mm, we've the conference with Andrew Galbraith."

"That has been re-scheduled for next week, Sherlock."

"Meeting with the head of the Prince Corporation?"

"Remind me to go over the notes before you sign anything, Mr. Holmes," Molly teased, "because as it is obviously clear that you never listen to anybody, that meeting was yesterday."

"Ah." Scrunching his brows, he attempted to replay his week's schedule in his head, though to no avail. "What do we have tomorrow?"

"We have nothing. You have to go over the delegations covering the company's recent decision to distribute supplies from section A-4 through to H-7 to the public. Here," she paused, placing her palm flat on the edge of his desk. When she removed it, there was a yellow sticky note in its place with her exact words written out. "As for me, I am getting tomorrow night off."

Sherlock tried not to let his exhale sound too much like a frustrating one.

"Already penciled into the schedule, I take it?" He asked.

"As of sixty-three hours ago and counting," Molly announced proudly, which was seven hours less than the last time she gave herself a holiday, indicating this was a last minute decision. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder why.

"Fine. Go have…a night of relaxing in a bubble bath with your favorite gossip magazine followed by your favourite drama on the telly?"

Molly giggled. "Close. That had been my original intention, but some of my girlfriends wanted to catch up."

"Whatever for? You text them on a daily basis—I see you from my office all the time when you're pretending to do work."

"You mean when you choose to read over old police case files instead of doing your work, Sherlock?" She smiled, and it took Sherlock up until that moment to realize she had been standing in front of his desk all this time. Often when she visited his office for extensive amounts of time to discuss something, she would have invited herself on the couches. Now the sight of her with a straightened back in tall heels bothered him just as much as the damned hairline.

"Sometimes chatting in person over drinks makes the night more…fun!"

"Fun…" he repeated slowly, the word lolling on his tongue like a newfound grape seed in his mouth.

"Yes, Sherlock. Fun. Compare it with shooting at the range or throwing darts in your office at your brother's photo."

"Ah, fun."

"Besides, it's quite annoying to discuss my trip over the phone. Too many things to describe, of course. Oh and Sarah wants to talk about her engagement, though there's a chance this might all go down the drain if Meena can't find a sitter for her kids and Tim's caught up at work. Mary's going to be there too!"

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, just moments before droning Molly's voice out, too caught up on the fact that it had technically been a while, and yet she still thought of Mycroft and the trip they embarked on, as if his brother had replaced all her priorities and interests with something as feeble as his favourite bakery.

"Wait," he called out for her mid thought before she could leave the office.

"Yes?" Molly asked, looking over her shoulder with a soft smile.

"Could you…"

"Could I…" she played along, singing along to the last syllable.

He swallowed. "Stay."

Molly could have teased him. She could have said, "Feeling lonely, are we?" That's what Molly would have said before all this. That's what Sherlockknew she would have said. Rather, her face softened so much so that Sherlock feared the sharp angles of his office could nick her if she stayed here for too long. Sherlock could feel himself just grasping at the idea of what might be different about her.

"Okay, just let me get my work," Molly said sweetly and if Sherlock continued to compare past and present, then it wasn't rare for her to share his office space from time to time. It was something she did on her own accord whenever she desired company.

But there was this problem now. He had initiated that she stay. She had become something that so often distracted Sherlock from his work. By no means were these thoughts important but they rang in his mind whenever he sat in his chair and stared at her through glass walls, fixated by the mere sight of his assistant. She had been gone for only a month from his office, and since her coming back, he had been entranced by her small gestures, hypnotized by the sound of nothingness. His mind hallucinated the clicking of keystrokes coming from her slender fingers, the faint gasp coming from her lips when she spotted an error, and the slight giggle reverberating along with his eardrums. They were sounds he couldn't hear from where he sat, sounds that he couldn't pinpoint in his memory, but he swore that they'd become an integral part of his life and he knew—had experienced briefly—there would be a void in his life if it ever went away.

Molly came back promptly at the end of his thoughts, turning sharply and straight towards the couches in the corner, before placing her laptop onto the coffee table as well as her notes. And suddenly Sherlock understood.

It hadn't been her hair parted to the side. It hadn't been sudden need for holidays to chat up with friends. It was her face: her wide brown eyes with her pointed nose and thin lips that smiled so often at him. There was just one thing that was clearly different:

Molly Hooper was sad.

* * *

**March 2012**

Sherlock turned the knob, hearing a faint click before speaking into the speaker sitting on the corner of his desk, opposite to the newly placed Swear Jar.

"Stop that," he said.

Molly's response came a little over twenty seconds later, having had to figure out where the on switch was on the intercom first. Almost a year into work, and she was still quite slow in adapting to company policies—Sherlock's own fault, he admitted to himself, for telling her to forego said rules on the very first day.

"Stop what?" came her echoed, teasing voice.

"Stop making that face!" Sherlock reprimanded. Her smile only widened. "Shouldn't you be working?"

Molly briefly glanced at the cell phone in her hands before plopping it on top of scattered papers. "I'm two weeks ahead of schedule, unlike somepeople!"

"How did you know?"

Through glass dividers, Sherlock could see the same smirk that she wore the night Jim Moriarty went away. The face had become something he unappreciated over the course of a year. Molly leaned in towards the intercom, but her eyes remained wide while she stared back at him. "You just told me."

Sherlock scrunched up his face, feeling repugnant. Molly's trickery felt like something he would have had to feel had he and Mycroft been ordinary; he could feel an impending headache coming on.

"Don't you even think about getting a cigarette, Sherlock," Molly's shrill voice chastised.

"How…" He dropped his head to the side, squinting at the woman. Speaking with Molly outside of necessary times wasn't a common phenomenon. He suddenly felt regret having introduced conversations through intercoms now; it was clear that after today, Molly would abuse it to her advantage.

"You have a tell," she said as a matter-of-factly.

"I don't have a tell!"

"Your mother says you have a tell."

"You spoke with my moth—never mind." He shook his head. "What are you doing?"

Molly seemed to be pleased at the question, though Sherlock couldn't fathom why. There was absolutely nothing entertaining with talking about one's day; why Molly liked talking about hers, even when she had just done so through her phone with friends, he would never understand. John had the terrible habit too, of sharing his day, and Sherlock reminded him that's what he married Mary for. He still did it anyway.

"One of my girlfriends from school recently got the job she wanted. Some friends of ours and I were planning a congratulatory dinner for her."

Sherlock had nothing to say to that. He wasn't particularly good or fond of small talk. Luckily, his assistant seemed to be aware of that and he could feel her smile from meters away.

"I will go back to my work, Sherlock," she said calmly through the speaker. "But only if you do the same."

"You're in no position to tell me what to do, Molly Hooper." He could feel himself smirking at the idea of his assistant bossing him around like Anthea to Mycroft.

Neither of them had bothered turning the intercom off. In the end, Sherlock went back to work anyway, and for the next three years, Molly continued to tell him what to do.

* * *

**January 2016**

Sherlock closed his eyes, something of a half a groan grumbles in his throat as he let his forehead balance on the tips of his closed hands. He couldn't remember a time when his work had caused him this much stress before, at least not since Moriarty—though he had to admit, that was slightly fun. It wasn't even anything new, but no matter how hard he tried to focus on his screen or on his papers, Molly's expression from her desk simply infuriated him.

"Stop that," he demanded.

"Stop what?" Asked the echo from his intercom. There was no teasing involved and it took Sherlock a moment before he realized Molly really didn't know what she was doing to him.

"Stop making that face!"

His comment only made it worse. Molly's face contorted into a frown full of question, brows deepening as she asked, "What face?" It only proved to irritate Sherlock more.

"The one like your cat has just died and seeing as Toby is hissing in the corner of my office, I can assure you that your creature is very much alive."

"Gee, thanks for the update, Sherlock." There was a slight hint of venom in her voice, mixed with sarcasm and exhaustion. Molly had these moments occasionally, when she felt overworked and unappreciated. Sherlock allowed her to feel those emotions, and always refrained from doing any further harm on her productivity. He too, occasionally felt irritated by the world around him. But it seemed these days that it was much more difficult for Molly to fall out of her somber mood and back to her usual self, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock was at loss as to what to do. In his opinion, it was much easier when he didn't do anything and she fixed her negative thoughts herself.

Finally, with a roll of his eyes, merely at the sudden thought of Mary and John's routines to reconcile whenever they spat, he pulled himself up from his seat. With a stretch of his arm, he grabbed his coat from the rack, no doubt signaling alarm from Molly in her seat, and headed her way.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" She asked, slightly panicked. "You're not supposed to leave your office anytime soon. Go back to your seat." Sherlock could see memory flashes in her eyes, most likely from early on in her career when he went on a smoke break, only to skip work entirely to go pester Lestrade. There was a brief rumble echoing in his throat, when he recalled how distraught Molly had been at his disappearance, enough to call the police only to find out he had already been with them.

"I'm feeling lunch." There was a light bounce on the balls of his heels as he circled her desk and stood in front of her.

"What? But it's not even—"

"Let's go." And with that, he spun on his feet and headed straight for the elevators.

Molly quickly turned from her desk and the pile of papers to Sherlock, and back to her desk again. She was halfway getting up from her seat, albeit reluctantly, and reaching for the coat hanging from the back of her chair. Regardless, she still tried to stop, or at least slow, Sherlock down. "I haven't called the bistro!"

He waved it off without turning around.

By the time they reached the elevators, Molly had already reached for her phone, but Sherlock stopped her.

"No need for a car, Molly. I believe it's a decent enough day to walk, don't you?"

It wasn't. The typical London forecast shone its cloudy skies over them with signs of an impending rainstorm later on. The crisp air bit at Sherlock's cheekbones as he walked, slightly ahead of Molly who was trying to keep up.

When he looked at his peripheral, he felt a bit of guilt that Molly's coat was nowhere near warm enough to cover her from the chill. He should have realized that to go from her home to the office, she always took the cab. The bright blue heels she wore were darkening from the wet ground. Sherlock hadn't slowed down for her to change out of her shoes and Molly hated walking long distances in heels. He frowned at the thought.

They reached Angelo's luckily before it began to drizzle, though with few words having been exchanged between them. Mostly with Molly yelling at Sherlock to slow down because damn his long strides. Sherlock had tried not to grin when he slowed down exceedingly so that Molly was ahead of him. She had merely swatted his shoulder and demanded he walk at the pace of a normal individual, i.e. at her speed.

Naturally, without the phone call ahead of time, the staff at Angelo's had a minor panic attack, bringing the owner out himself to apologize sincerely to Sherlock and insist that his fish and chips would be out shortly.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said, to the surprise of everyone in the restaurant, including Molly. "Just a table and two menus, please."

Angelo, along with his staff froze, eyes darting between the CEO and his assistant, and then behind the pair as if expecting a client. They nodded and even Molly stared at her boss questionably.

It wasn't something they had done before, him inviting her to eat with him. Not really. The pair had eaten together at the same table before when the situation called for it, when they were stuck at a dinner they'd rather not be a part of. Usually Molly ate in the office at her own desk while he ate in his, or if he had a dinner planned with a client, she'd eat beforehand and not risk her stomach growling while she watched Sherlock and whoever was with him (that had happened the first day she met John Watson).

In retrospect, Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he thought inviting Molly out to lunch would change the atmosphere at the office. It was far more work than he'd expected, though the sight of Molly scanning the menu, deep in thought, seemed to contrast her mood from earlier.

Sherlock actually didn't take long to know what he's in the mood for, but for the sake of not rushing the woman across from him, he pretended to skim the menu a little longer until he's sure she had decided on her lunch item.

Once they'd handed their menus to the waiter, Sherlock felt Molly's stare on him, curious as a child, but sharp like a detective's—none that he knew, that is. She wanted to know why she was there, sitting across from him where only John, Mary, and occasionally some clients have sat before. She wanted to understand his sudden burst of irregularity, and was most likely preparing several contingency plans in preparation for what he may do. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the thought; yes, he'd trained her well.

They sat in peaceful silence while waiting for their food, though based on Molly's expression, she seemed to have found their quietness awkward. It must have irked her, to eat in silence. She had opened her mouth and closed it in several successions. Even in the office, she was often seen with her phone while munching away at whatever leftovers she had from home.

"You still have a lot of work to do, Sherlock," she chastised. "Just because we're out and about right now, doesn't excuse you from completing this week's report. You also have to make sure to discuss with Mycroft—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Must we ruin my appetite by mentioning him?"

Molly paused, and then to Sherlock's surprised, she smiled.

Finally, after a brief of silence, Molly said, "So I saw the girls a couple of weeks back," instead of whatever was on her mind. If anything, it stunned Sherlock she didn't scold him further, and he supposed it transpired on his face as Molly was prompted to continue. "Mary hadn't begun to show yet, but Meena insists her stomach will be replaced with a watermelon sooner or later. I…" Her voice trailed off just in time for their lunch to arrive.

She continued to talk about Susan or Sarah or whoever she was with on her last night off, frivolous matters that Sherlock half paid attention to. Occasionally, he'd peak up at the sound of Mary, but even then, it was nothing new to the comments John had made about her bouts of morning sickness.

By the time they had finished lunch, Sherlock had opted to call for the car, vaguely remembering Molly's shivers during their arrival. He would have to remember to mention buying a more versatile and thicker coat next time Molly insisted on spending her Swear Jar money on a senseless spa trip.

"Was there any particular reason you wanted to have lunch today?" Molly asked later on, when they were in the elevator ride up to the top floor of Holmes &amp; Holmes Inc. It had only been a matter of time before she asked him that. Sherlock couldn't fathom why the woman was unable to let things go when she clearly enjoyed their afternoon.

"You were on the verge of another impending, unnecessary diet, what with your recent get together with friends—their lives moving forward, your love life being stagnant," Sherlock began to explain with a wave of his hand once he stepped out of the elevator, oblivious to Molly's deepening frown. "I was already planning a visit to Angelo's for this afternoon. You enjoying your high caloric meal was…a bonus, if you will, if only to remind you there are far more important things in life than cheap salads and being bloody miserable to me while you work." Sherlock forced the biggest grin he could muster, feeling his cheekbones rise and eyes squinting at Molly who looked like she was about to hogtie him up and throw him out of the windows. He didn't doubt that she could do that either, if she wanted to.

Eyes dark, Molly's glare never escaped him as she spat a, "Of course. Thanks, Sherlock" before making her way to her desk.

Sherlock meant to reach out for her, have her really look at his face and let her know that that was never the reason, that he just hoped a few hours out of the office would lighten up her mood, but he withheld himself. Instead, he marched back into his office where he spent the next twenty minutes fixated on Molly Hooper through glass walls, searching for any signs of depression on her. He eventually went back to work, concluding that Molly was no longer sad. Instead, she looked guilty.

Sherlock let out a huff, while his sinking shoulders rolled in their sockets in preparation for the long night he was going to have now with all of his work.

* * *

**January 2016**

It was late at night when Molly stepped into his office again. There were only two instances when she would speak to him directly, rather than through their intercom: when she wanted to stretch her legs, or when something grave has happened or will happen. When Sherlock looked away from his work and onto his assistant's face, he knew it was the latter.

Lips bound together, he waited for her to speak first. A series of thoughts rummaged in his mind, awful memories ranging between Mycroft wanting to take her away for weeks and months at a time to the night she received a phone call from her brothers and was told their father had died. Sherlock personally made sure she had gotten home safely that night, even going so far as hiding her bottle of wine in his coat when she hadn't been looking.

She looked frightful of what she was going to say, Sherlock assumed. He could see the slight quiver in her lips. Her steps had been light and hesitant, heels no longer clicking proudly and strongly into his office as they usually did. Her eyes were wide, as if while he was studying her, she was doing the same to him too. Sherlock didn't like it.

"Sherlock," she began, her voice airy and light, like a ferocious lion reverting back into a cub. Her pupils ran from side to side, and it was then that Sherlock realized Molly wasn't afraid of what she was going to say. She was afraid of him.

"Say it." His voice had taken her aback. He didn't know what was wrong, but he needed to know now. He despised that look on her.

"Sherlock," she repeats again, a little more vigor in her voice. She tried to smile. "I've worked for you for about five years now. And I…I've learned so much, even though there were times when you annoyed me so much, I thought I was working for a six year old and I—"

"Molly, you're rambling."

"R-Right. My point is, in spite of all that, I really do love everything here and you," she paused, eyes widening. "And you are a wonderful boss and I couldn't have wanted a better place to work at, but you know how sometimes you go to Angelo's for so long, you suddenly want me to look up a new restaurant in the city to have lunch or dinner at? It's—"

Sherlock furrowed his brows. He didn't understand what she was saying; he loathed not understanding. He pushed himself from his seat, circling around the desk. Molly's inability to speak properly was making him frustrated. He thought she had gotten over her stuttering years ago, some exceptions apply, but the mere idea of it coming back meant that something was not in his favour. Something Molly wanted to say was so far from his favour; she looked like she was about to burst into a waterfall and Sherlock hated it.

It wasn't until he was no less than a meter away from his assistant when she pushed all her strength into two words and shouted,

"I'm quitting!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** Present day is 2016. Molly began working for Sherlock in 2011.

* * *

**January 2016**

Sherlock had always prided himself in being able to read others just as well, if not better, than his brother. It was a trait so very few people had. While it set up a strict lifestyle for him growing up, it had also given him an upper hand in the business world. He could always dissect what others wanted out of him before they so much as shook hands. It led him to hire Molly Hooper five years ago.

And now, the string of words that usually floated around as he analyzed people was more of a mess than anything. He felt almost inebriated, unsure of his own thoughts as he watched Molly stare at him back. She was a standing contradiction: she was attempting to take on her dominant persona, but had chewed her chapped lips raw.

Of course, she was trying to calm herself. What she had said still lingered in his head, and that was nerve-wracking. He had clear explanations for everything about her right now, except for that.

"What?"

Molly stood a little straighter, with lips pressed together and her eyes wide in order to force her composure. Sherlock hadn't seen that false bravado since her first week of work and it drew an awful lump in his throat.

Quiet, she repeated again, "I'm quitting. This is my two weeks' notice."

Sherlock squinted and furrowed his brows, cocking his head to the side. "Molly, you're going to have to repeat yourself," he told her, "I seemed to have heard that you were quitting."

"You know what you heard, Sherlock."

He remained still and his eyes went blank. It was a classic expression for him whenever he needed to retreat to his Mind Palace. He had never anticipated this moment; it was… He wasn't sure what it was. He just knew he didn't like it—didn't _accept_ it.

"I know you don't accept it, but you're going to have to."

It's after he entered every tower and dungeon in his Mind Palace that he responded with a prompt spin on his heels. Sherlock marched over to his cabinet, fingers eager to clutch on something and squeeze the life out of it. Instead, they managed to grasp onto every handle in the office, pulling out shelves and shelves. He could feel his heart thundering inside his chest, pulses echoing enough to drive him mad, matching the loud clanging of every desk drawer hitting the floor. He's reached the last drawer, fingers clutching around the handle while his eyes rapidly searched for—

"I threw out your cigarettes last week."

He turned back to her while his arm yanked onto the drawer, launching it to the other side of the room. It didn't escape him that Molly flinched and had become far more nervous than she had ever been before.

"Why?!"

"Because they'll give you cancer!"

"No, not that," he responded. The room has become quiet again except for his heavy breathing. "_Why_?"

Sherlock didn't think his reaction was uncalled for, but at his voice Molly stepped back, blinking tears away. When her sight finally fixed on him, Sherlock only became angrier. She was scared. She had the gall to suggest something so foolish and now she was terrified?

"I don't have to say," was her response.

"You're guilty. Why are you guilty?"

"Stop that. Sherlock, I can quit if I want to."

"No, you can't!" He argued. "You're _mine_."

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped in disbelief. "No, I'm not!" She spat with harshness at the edges of her words. "You and Mycroft keep saying that: I'm yours, _Sherlock's Molly_, counterpart of Mycroft's Anthea! I'm _not_ a possession, Sherlock! I'm not an object you can just take with you all the time and show off to all your friends. I'm a person, so sod off!"

Sherlock remained quiet briefly and watched the rise and fall of Molly's shaken body. She breathed heavily, and she continued to blink back the tears threatening to escape at the corner of her eyes. Her hands clenched, and there was so much hardness that outlined her features when she stared at him. She had always been a bit on the emotional side, but the sight of her so utterly angry _at_ him made him feel lost.

He swallowed the lump in his throat away—it didn't budge. "You're not."

"What?"

"You're not a person. A person belongs in a group. A person is a fraction of people. You said so yourself, Molly Hooper, you are _not_ people. You are far from ordinary—you are nothing like _them_."

"But I am…" Her voice fell back into its softness again. Like a gentle caress that won't last. "I want the same things they do. I want to explore the world. I want to marry and maybe get another cat and…And I want a job that I love."

It felt like a slap in the face.

"You want me," he decided.

She frowned, but the exhaustion was clear in her eyes: she didn't want to argue with him anymore. She was already done with him before this conversation was over. "Contrary to what you might think, not everything revolves around you, Sherlock."

Molly stepped forward, if only to center herself in the room as she always did when she needed his attention. She took a deep breath, and within a fraction of a second, Sherlock could hear the distant crumbling of the secret room in his Mind Palace where his memories of Molly lied.

"I'm moving on now, Sherlock. I'm people now."

"Molly—"

"_Mr. Holmes_…Please."

Sherlock could feel a shiver down his spine; it felt too wrong. Molly never called him Mr. Holmes unless someone else was there. They were the only ones in his office though and he hated the way she tightened her jaw, the way he could see the slight tremble of her lips, because it stole the voice lingering in his throat and he found himself unable to speak.

"Two weeks," she whispered softly, her voice cracking like the walls around Sherlock's comfortable existence. "Two weeks and then I'm gone."

* * *

**August 2011**

Contrary to popular belief, Molly Hooper did not become an instantaneous legend after Moriarty's shameful defeat.

She had scurried into Sherlock's office the next day, in her lucky jumper and she had a notepad tucked away in her pockets. Her face was flushed even before she laid eyes on the man behind the desk, mumbling something about the office finally recognizing her since the trial. Sherlock hadn't really paid attention.

In the two weeks following, Molly had taken a drastic turn, fashion wise. She had stepped into her boss's office wearing a similar ensemble to what Mycroft's Anthea had been wearing: a white blouse with the top two buttons undone, but no more, underneath a tight fit, black blazer. The pencil skirt she had worn to her interview had recently been ironed, and the pointed shoes had added four inches to Molly's height. Her knees were bent awkwardly as she attempted to walk up to Sherlock. Judging by the time, she had trouble walking that entire morning and her feet were already on the verge of forming blisters.

Sherlock had pressed his lips together in annoyance when he had first seen her appearance.

"What are you wearing?"

Molly had known she was going to be interrogated, but had acted innocent, almost flattered, that he paid any notice so soon.

"Oh, this? Just something I picked up—"

"Why?"

"Er, I…." she had stuttered. "I thought it would be nice, y'know, if I started wearing clothes like this."

He had narrowed his eyes at her. "If I had wanted to hire Anthea, I would have stolen her from under Mycroft's bulging nose."

She had appeared to be offended. "I didn't dress like this to _copy_ her!"

"Then why? It can't be to _appear_ professional; you've already worked here for three—four—months. If you wanted to look professional, you would have changed your appearance the first week you started working here. You had been satisfied when I told you to wear your usual outfits—Mycroft gets incredibly upset and it brings me great joy seeing him flustered. No, you wore this because of something else. _Tell me_."

Molly had gulped, ducking her chin down and avoiding his harsh stare. Her fingers had pinched at the corners of the files in her hands. "I…I guess with all the attention lately…People have been talking, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, that's what _people_ do."

Molly had shaken her head. "No, I mean…When I dressed the way I did, no one particularly understood _why_ or _how _I was working with you. They all thought I was—that we were…_you know_."

Sherlock's face had scrunched up, confused. "We were what?"

If possible, Molly's face had reddened even more. "Having relations," she squeaked. When Sherlock hadn't said anything, she said, louder, "_Having sex_. That I was giving you sexual favours in order to keep my job here."

Finally, he had understood. "I see…Fire them."

"What?!"

"After me, you hold the most powerful position at this firm." Sherlock had blatantly ignored the existence of his brother. "If someone displeases you, get rid of them. Clearly they're already wasting time frivolously spreading rumours than contributing to anything important."

Molly's face had whitened immensely and she could feel a dizzy spell coming along. "I-I'm not used to being in a position of power, sir. I don't think…"

She had kept her head down, refusing to look at Sherlock in the eye now that she could hear how loud her heartbeats were drumming.

"Molly, look at me."

Hesitantly, she had untucked her chin from its position on her chest. Sherlock was staring straight at her without a foul look on his face.

"Be honest."

"I'm always honest with you, Mr. Holmes," she had admitted.

There had been the barest hint of a smile. "Did you believe the accusations that myself and my brother were stealing from the company and the government?"

Her eyes had widened at the question. "No! Of course not! I trust you."

"Good," he had replied, getting up from his seat. He had walked over to the nervous girl who despite having worn the outfit for several hours was just as uncomfortable as she had been when she put it on that morning. He stood directly in front of her, facing down and keeping his face close enough to make her even far more nervous and self-conscious than she had been moments before.

"So tell me," he had said, his low voice reverberating, "why would you care about what people have to say about us when not for a second did you believe what they had to say about mine and Mycroft's business affairs?"

"It's different when the rumours are about me, Mr. Holmes," Molly had admitted in an almost whisper. "I'm not used to the attention."

"Sherlock," was his response, escaping Molly's personal bubble. He had taken three strides back and leaned his back against the desk.

"What?"

"I don't like being called _Mr. Holmes_—it reminds me too much of my brother and not even the mindless, bumbling idiots that Lestrade works with deserve that sort of thought on a daily basis. Do so whenever those _people_ that you keep on rambling about are near, but in my quarters, I prefer to be called by my name."

Molly had nodded frantically, still adjusting to the fact that the wall of tall, dark, and handsome wasn't blocking her field of vision anymore. "O-Okay, Sherlock."

"Good. Now listen closely, Molly; I don't want to repeat myself."

"Alright…"

"Each day, between my flat and my work, I see approximately one hundred and thirty-three people on average. That includes my day-to-day meetings and my trip to the coffee shop at lunch. I run the half of the company that my brother does not oversee, meaning I have far too little time, or energy, or even _desire _to learn who these people are, or what they do with their lives. Frankly, they don't interest me.

"People don't matter to me, just as they shouldn't matter to you. When Jim Moriarty accused our company of stealing, he attacked us with every pressure point we had, because he knew that the ones who mattered are the only ones whose names I remembered: John…Mary…Lestrade.

"It had been difficult to counter against him when so much was at risk for our friends. As a result, we deliberately allowed ourselves to be hurt so long as the ones who mattered strayed from the damage.

"We are already at so much risk dealing with the ones who matter to us, Molly. Why create further damage to ourselves with the people who don't matter?"

* * *

**January 2016**

Mycroft remained quiet, even as his brother huffed and puffed his way to the chair across from him. He managed a smug smile. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" It didn't matter what Sherlock answered; Mycroft already knew.

"You pushed her away," Sherlock accused.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific than that, Sherlock. I've pushed many people away—almost as much as you have."

"Everything was perfect until you came and _pushed her away_!"

Mycroft didn't respond.

"Has the fat reached your ears?! Molly. _Molly_. _My_ Molly. She was perfectly content working with me until you had your way and forced her out. Now I'm short an assistant, and it's all. Your. Fault!"

The older brother remained silent, mouth forming a line as he calmly watched Sherlock's heavy exhales through his flared nostrils. The staring match between the two continued, with Mycroft leaving a watchful eye, studying Sherlock just as he had always done – waiting for the detonation. If Mycroft was the calm before the storm, then Sherlock would be the ship that fought stubbornly against Hell's waves.

Fitting for one who once wanted to be a pirate, Mycroft thought.

Finally, when he was sure Sherlock would not explode once more, he spoke: "The day we released news that our company was searching for an assistant, do you know what the job was described as?"

Sherlock's scowl never faltered, but all it took was a flicker in his eyes to let Mycroft know Sherlock hadn't paid any attention to the hiring process.

The elder Holmes sighed. "It was described as temporary."

The muscles around his jaw relaxed, his blinking slowed. Sherlock was beginning to get it, Mycroft noted, but it would take more than just a word, even for men as extraordinary as them—for men as _torn_ as him.

"The position was listed as a temporary job, because by that point, you had scared off every susceptible male and female associate that had entered your corridors within weeks of their arrival. Why waste precious resources looking for just _one_ extraordinary person to fill your schedules for you, when we can have an endless supply of _ordinary_ people at our disposal?"

"Molly is _far_ from ordinary, Mycroft," Sherlock said his name like it was an insult. He had only ever done so whenever he was incredibly crossed, but never to this extent. Not even when Mycroft left him at home to go to university was Sherlock this angry.

Sentiment: his brother steered clear from it all his life and now, he was drowning in it.

Rolling the chair back, Mycroft reached for the file drawer on his right, picking up the top folder he knew he would have to reveal soon, and placed it on the glass table between them. Molly Hooper's name and identification number stamped on its front; Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sight.

"Ms. Hooper was never supposed to have stayed longer than six months with our firm. Her current position was not what she had agreed to," Mycroft continued to explain. "A girl like her—" He paused to flip the folder open, revealing a photo of a young, recluse girl in a rather large lab coat. "—fresh out of school…She only wanted to remove herself of student loans and explore the world before starting her career."

Mycroft flipped the photo over and Sherlock hastily read the company's contract in front of him. His eyes focused steadily on Molly's signature at the bottom where she agreed to only work for a limited time for the Holmes brothers.

"She accomplished the first task working with you all these years. It's only proper we allow her to fulfill her other endeavours after all she has done for us. Or rather, after all the years she's had to put up with you."

Sherlock ignored the last jab at him, but the emotions transfixed on his face never faltered from their natural state of pure anger. "If she had wanted to do any of _that_, she would have done it a long time ago! She would not have left unless you coerced her!"

"Did I?" Mycroft's brows furrowed at his brother's foolish claims and denial. "She never wanted to be a secretary, Sherlock. Have you ever asked her what she wanted?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"She wanted to be a doctor. She had just finished medical school when we hired her and had planned on filling in the days with _temporary _tasks at her _temporary_ job until she found a proper placement at the hospital.

"Of course, that never happened, did it? She was so overwhelmed by her new career and awe-stricken by her employer that she put aside all her dreams and desires for you. Now that she is back to thinking about herself, her dreams, passions and so forth have finally restarted."

Mycroft got up from his chair, stepping forward until he was almost pressed against Sherlock's side. He bent down and with a turn of his head, he spoke directly into Sherlock's ear.

"Tell me, dear brother: why would she want to go back to _you_?"


End file.
